


Tranquillity

by mybelovedcheshire



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: FLUFF FLUFF FLUFFY FLUFFNESS, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-12
Updated: 2012-11-12
Packaged: 2017-11-18 11:56:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,003
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/560807
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mybelovedcheshire/pseuds/mybelovedcheshire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Greg insists that Sherlock stay with him until the winter storm passes since Sherlock's home is a broken down derelict. Sherlock does, but he doesn't want to sleep on Greg's couch.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tranquillity

**Author's Note:**

  * For [PUNIFA](https://archiveofourown.org/users/PUNIFA/gifts).



"I don't understand why I can't stay in my own flat," Sherlock told him with a wide yawn. 

Greg hid his smile behind his mug. 

Sherlock pulled the duvet up to his chin. He'd stolen the blanket from Greg's bed and made himself comfortable in the armchair by the wall. Greg had offered the couch, but Sherlock had turned up his nose. 

He did that. He would take what he wanted, but he wouldn't accept things that were offered. Greg didn't get it, but then -- he had a young niece and nephew, and they didn't make all that much sense to him either.

He just liked it when Sherlock let down his guard and did something so simple and human as yawning. 

"Oh, for God's sake," Sherlock shouted at the television. "This isn't a detective show, this is children playing a scavenger hunt!" 

Greg bit his lip. It was Miss Marple, actually, but that wouldn't have meant anything to Sherlock. He doubted the lad knew who Poirot was, never mind Agatha Christie. 

He could identify which newspaper a clipping had come from by the paper and print, but he didn't bloody know a lick about fiction's most loved detectives. It was cute. It was so stupid and so cute. 

"Your flat has a hole in the wall," Greg answered. "I'd have had to nick your landlord for manslaughter on grounds of shitty maintenance." 

He'd tried to fix the hole himself, but there was only so much he could do when the very bricks were crumbling. It wasn't safe -- structural integrity was a running joke throughout the estate, but that didn't exactly matter to Sherlock. 

"It's small," Sherlock muttered sourly. 

"It's the size of my fucking head," Greg retorted. 

That might not have been an exaggeration. 

"You'll stay here until this storm blows over. Then you can go back to your ratty little den to sit and think. Or whatever it is you do in there." 

"I sleep," Sherlock told him arrogantly.

"Do you?" 

"Yes." 

Greg calmly sipped the hot chocolate he'd made for them. 

"When I'm not on a case." 

Greg made an indistinct noise of acknowledgement.

Sherlock sulkily looked back at the television.

After a moment, the older detective put his mug down and stretched his legs out on top of the coffee table. Sherlock didn't move, but his gaze jumped from Miss Marple to Greg and back again quickly. 

"So," Greg asked. "Planning on sleeping tonight?" 

Sherlock blinked once. "I'm not on a case." 

"No, you're not. You want the couch?" 

Sherlock's eyes narrowed. Lestrade was on the couch. Whereas he had the armchair all to himself, and a blanket. Why should he want to share?

Greg gave him a chance to answer, but he knew that slightly confused look better than anyone. Sherlock's brilliant and too-quick-for-its-own-bloody-good mind was rapidly trying to dissolve the question into comprehensible fragments.

"I'm going to bed in a bit," he added nonchalantly. "And I'm taking my bloody blanket with me." 

Sherlock glared bitterly and did his best to retract his entire body into the chair like a snail into its shell. 

Greg laughed out loud.

"All right, fine," he conceded, smiling. The expression didn't fade as he added: "Guess you could kip at the end of the bed or something. Might manage to fit us both if you stay tucked like that." 

Sherlock didn't react. Greg watched his face closely, but the lad kept his eyes focused stiffly on the screen. 

"I promise my feet don't smell." 

Sherlock's mouth twitched.

"Well, not that much." 

Sherlock didn't answer, and Greg didn't push him. He knew better, even if it was hard to resist taking the piss just for fun. 

Miss Marple ended some time later, and Greg stretched again. He yawned with the genuine innocence of a good-natured man who'd completely forgotten that he'd been trying to bait Sherlock into coming to bed with him. 

Sherlock hadn't forgotten. As the credits rolled, he stood up. He unravelled, really -- his long legs quickly hit the floor, and he popped out of the chair, keeping Greg's duvet wrapped snugly around his thin body. Greg looked up at him with surprised, sleepy concern. 

Sherlock didn't meet his eyes. He marched past the telly and the coffee table and into Greg's bedroom without a word.

Greg all but grinned. "Night," he called out.

The bed creaked as Sherlock made camp right in the middle, blanket and coat and shoes and all. 

Greg gave him time to get comfortable. He picked up their mugs, carried them to the kitchen and washed them out. He put away some of the dry dishes and even remembered to plug in his mobile. Eventually, when he found himself aching for warmth and unable to resist the temptation any longer, he turned off the television and all of the lights. 

He shuffled into the bedroom. 

Sherlock feigned sleep. 

Greg knew he was faking because he could always hear Sherlock breathing when he was genuinely out. The only sound in the bedroom was the odd clack from the old radiator. 

There was a street lamp just outside, casting long, eerie shadows through the curtains. Greg could discern Sherlock's outline in the darkness -- such a surprisingly small shape, considering how tall the lad was. How Sherlock managed to curl up like that, Greg could never work out. He always managed to take up as much of the bed as was humanely possible -- and then some.

They made a nice pair, in that respect.

Greg pulled his shirt over his head and tossed it into the corner before climbing in. It was a struggle to dislodge enough of the blanket from Sherlock's iron grip to cover himself up, but after a brief tussle with the supposed-to-be-unconscious man, Greg wormed his way into an open space. 

Sherlock -- completely submerged in his nest -- pressed his cheek against Greg's bare chest.

Greg draped his arm over him and closed his eyes. 

He heard the soft, uninhibited sound of Sherlock breathing within minutes.


End file.
